NOISE

The door slammed shut behind him with the final, metallic verdict of a lock clicking into place, a sound that echoed through his entire being as a dull thud. Not a solemn, resonant boom, but the quiet, mundane clunk of a latch, as if a warehouse were being secured, not a man being released into freedom. And freedom greeted him not with a bright sun, but with a solid, low ceiling of leaden sky that pressed against his temples. The air felt cold, damp, and incredibly dense after the stifling, institutional atmosphere. Juichi drew his first full breath, and his lungs, unaccustomed to such generosity, were seized by a sudden, sharp spasm. He doubled over, coughing—a raw, animal sound that seemed the only appropriate thing in this place. No one was there to meet him. His friends had scattered long ago—right after the verdict—and all his relatives remained in his past life, in the small village he had run away from when he was fifteen. At the gates, on the deserted road, there were no cars, no people. Only him, a rusty signpost, and the endless gray ribbon of asphalt disappearing into a dirty haze on the horizon. He shifted his shoulders, trying to grow accustomed to the weight of his own body in freedom. The clothes he’d been wearing when they took him three years earlier hung on him like a sack; he had grown thin, and his muscles had turned wooden, lifeless. In his pocket rustled a pack of money—his processing fee, a paltry sum that would barely last a week. He shoved his hand into the pocket, crumpling the bills into a tight ball. The paper was rough, real. The first complex question of his new life turned out to be laughably simple: where to go? There was no plan, no goal, no desire. There was only the prison logic, honed to automatism: movement by schedule, food by schedule, sleep by schedule. Now, there was no schedule. There was only an empty, oppressive expanse of time that needed to be filled with something. He started walking at random, turning his face to the biting wind. His half-empty gym bag bounced on his shoulder; it contained nothing but a change of clothes given to him by his former cellmates. It was the only proof that those three years had truly happened. The city engulfed him all at once, deafening him with its roar. The growl of engines, the screech of brakes, the intrusive music blaring from shops, the hum of voices—it all merged into a single, aggressive noise. He felt dizzy and had to stop at a crossroads. People flowed around him, not looking at him, jostling him with their elbows. Juichi felt like a ghost; the crowd passed right through him, unnoticing, never meeting his gaze. He was afraid his fragile, silent shell would crack from the city's din. His eyes, sharpened by years of observing small details, caught frightening glimpses: the snarl of a taxi driver cursing viciously in traffic, the cold gleam of a watch on a passerby's wrist, the intrusive stare of a girl from a poster advertisement. A sense of threat hung in the air, thick as smog. Juichi turned into the first narrow side street he found, seeking refuge from the flow. It was quieter here; it smelled of frying oil, damp concrete, and a sweetish smoke. He walked with his head down, counting the cracks in the asphalt, trying to quell the inner panic at a life to which he had become unaccustomed. His feet carried him of their own accord to the entrance of a small semi-basement bar. From its open door, shielded by a tattered black curtain, spilled the sound of live music. Someone's unskilled but sincere playing on an acoustic guitar and… a voice. That voice made him stop dead in his tracks, rooted to the asphalt as he listened. Not because it was beautiful, but because it was imperfect. Absolutely awful, unmelodic. The voice cracked, the guitar went off-key in the transitions, but in this clumsiness there was such a raw, exposed pain that it hooked into Juichi, caught on something deep inside, and reeled him in on an invisible line. This wasn't an escape from reality. This was reality itself, sung in a raspy whisper by someone just as lost as he was—for others just as lost. Pushing the curtain aside, Juichi stepped inside. It was dark and empty. Only a dim lamp glowed behind the bar, and a single spotlight fell on the tiny stage. Of the few patrons drowning at the bottom of their glasses, no one was looking at the stage. But it was there, Juichi felt, that life was flickering. On stage stood a thin, almost fragile young man. He held his guitar with a desperate tenderness, as if it weren't an instrument but the only lifebuoy in a raging ocean. He had bowed his head so low that his face was hidden by strands of dark hair, making the voice that came from somewhere deep in his chest seem even more detached and ghostly. He wasn't singing for the audience. He was singing for the wall in front of him. His fingers wandered over the fretboard, finding chords more by muscle memory than by ear. Juichi froze in the doorway, not daring to take another step. He felt like a barbarian who had burst into someone else's temple, brazenly stealing another's prayers. This sound, this raw, nervous moan, was exposing him, stripping away the thin layer of skin he had tried to grow over these three years of captivity. It became physically painful. He wanted to turn around and leave, but his legs wouldn't obey. In this unskilled playing was such a total, defenseless sincerity that Juichi squeezed his eyes shut—as if he had seen an open wound. Summoning his courage, he crept to the farthest, darkest corner, hunched over a table to make himself smaller. He dropped his bag on the floor and began to listen, mentally howling along with his own pain. The guy on stage finished the song. The final chord rang out and faded into the silence of the room. No one applauded. He simply rubbed his knee, adjusted the microphone, and started the next one. Without a word, without a pause. As if he had just taken a breath. Juichi couldn't take his eyes off him. He stared intently at his fingers, the curve of his neck, the shadow he cast on the wall. He searched for affectation, posturing, but found none. There was only a complete, absolute absorption in the process, a retreat into oneself. This wasn't rehearsed pain for others' ears. This was something real, the kind of thing usually overlooked in the noise of the day, passed by without a second thought. And then, for the first time in many years, Juichi felt it. Not anger. Not fear. Not numbness. Not even resentment. He felt silence. That obsessive, unceasing voice in his head that had endlessly pronounced his sentence—"You're a monster, you're worthless, you ruin everything"—fell silent for a moment. It was drowned out by another voice: a raspy, imperfect, painfully piercing, and yet liberating one. Time slipped by unnoticed. The guy who had been singing in the beam of light stood up, carefully placed his guitar in a case leaning against the wall, stepped off the stage, and headed for the bar. Only now did Juichi get a clear look at his face. It was tired, pale, with dark circles under the eyes, but his features held a strange, detached clarity born of resigned acceptance. Juichi knew that feeling; it was the first thing one had to learn in prison. The guy walked past Juichi's table without looking around and disappeared through an opening behind the bar, presumably leading to a back room. The spell was broken. The noise in his head returned with triple the force, now laced with shame. What was he doing here? Sitting in a bar, listening to some scrawny musician as if he had no other concerns. As if he had the right. He stood up abruptly, knocking the table with his knee. The glassware clinked. He grabbed his bag and almost ran for the exit, shoving the heavy curtain aside. The cold air hit his face, restoring a sense of reality—sharp and uncomfortable. After a few steps down the dark street, he felt his heart hammering in his chest with triple its force. He had to stop, bracing his palm against the cold brick wall, trying to catch his breath. That voice was still ringing in his ears. His fingers clenched into fists on their own. A nauseating feeling rose in his throat—disgust at his own weakness, at this sudden and absurd flare-up of an unfamiliar emotion. He felt cold, shoved his hands into his pockets, and that's when Juichi realized he had left that very pack of money, all he had, on the bar floor. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he scrambled from behind the table. Familiar panic, the anxiety of utter helplessness, tightened his throat. He turned and dashed back. The bar was now lit up; a bartender had appeared behind the counter—a burly man wiping a beer mug. The musician was nowhere to be seen. "Hey," Juichi said hoarsely, approaching the bar. "I... I was sitting over there. I dropped some money." The bartender lazily raised his eyes to him, giving him a slow, appraising look from head to toe. Juichi felt the full weight of his prison past, like a brand. "What money?" the man asked indifferently. Juichi had already opened his mouth to say something sharp, to revert to the language of force that was the only one he knew, when a quiet voice came from behind him: "Here." He turned around. The musician was standing in the doorway to the back room, holding that very crumpled wad of bills. Without a word, he held it out to Juichi. His expression remained unchanged—the same weary detachment. Wordlessly, Juichi took the money, his fingers inadvertently brushing against the other's cold ones. "Thanks," he forced out, feeling his face burn. The guy nodded, just once, a short, expressionless dip of his head, and turned to leave. "Hey," Juichi called out again, not understanding what force was compelling him to do it. "Your music... it..." He searched for the word. Not "good," not "beautiful." He wanted to say "real," but the word wouldn't come. The guy stopped and met his gaze for a second. His eyes were dark, almost black, and too large for his pale face. They held no curiosity, no fear, no desire for approval. Nothing. Only a deep, bottomless silence in which all sound drowned. "It's loud," Juichi finished lamely. A muscle twitched on the musician's face. Not a smile. More a shadow of understanding. He nodded again and vanished into the darkness of the back room. Juichi walked back outside. He shoved the money into his deepest pocket and zipped it shut. The rain had finally begun, heavy, sparse drops splattering on the asphalt. He walked away without looking back at the bar, yet feeling it behind him like a single point of warmth in the cold, hostile city. And in his ears, drowning out the relentless whisper in his head, that raspy, imperfect voice still played. It was loud. Painfully so. The rain intensified, shifting from sparse, heavy drops into a solid, prickly sheet. It soaked through his thin jacket, and the cold seeped into Juichi’s bones, making him hunch his shoulders and draw his head in. The city turned from gray to black, mirrored, reflecting tattered scraps of cloud and the poisonous gleam of neon signs in the puddles. Every light seemed a mockery, every warm, brightly lit shop front—a foreign, inaccessible world. He walked aimlessly, his legs moving on instinct. His soaked boots had taken on water and squelched treacherously with every step. The sound grated on him, hammering at his temples. He tried to think of practical matters: where to spend the night. A cheap motel, the train station, maybe just a doorway. But his thoughts wouldn’t cohere, dissolving like wet paper. A dull roar filled his head—the very one the music had temporarily drowned out, but which had now returned with triple the force, mingling with the noise of the rain and the city. Monster. Nothing. You thought something would change? You walked out those gates, but you're still there. You'll always be there. He gritted his teeth, trying to force the voice back into the dark box where it usually resided, but today the voice was stronger. It whispered that the bartender had seen everything in him at a glance. That the musician had probably sensed the prison on him, had looked right through him, seen nothing, which was why he’d been so indifferent. The money in his pocket pulsed with a burning shame. Juichi was in debt. He owed a debt to someone who hadn’t even asked his name. Passing a crowded, brightly lit fast-food joint, he caught his reflection in the wet glass. A tall, angular silhouette, sunken eyes, short-cropped hair like a mobster’s. A stranger’s face. A criminal’s face. He looked away. He ended up spending the night in a "capsule"—a cheap hostel in a district that smelled of stale beer stains and despair. The capsule resembled a prison cell—the same cramped space, the same artificial light seeping through the blinds, the same muffled sounds of other lives from behind thin walls: coughing, the creak of springs, whispering. He didn't undress, lying down on the hard mattress on top of the blanket, and stared at the ceiling just centimeters from his nose. His eyes ached with fatigue, but sleep wouldn’t come. Juichi saw the dark spot in the spotlight beam before him, heard that cracking voice. It was quieter than the voice in his head, but somehow more persistent. Like a splinter. In the morning, after paying, he stepped outside. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained low and dirty. And yet, it pressed down on him far more heavily than the ceiling of his cell had. Cheap coffee in a plastic cup from a kiosk scalded his tongue, leaving a bitter, wormwood-like aftertaste. He drank it, slowly wandering the still-sleeping streets, and realized with surprise that his feet were carrying him back. To that narrow alley. To that black doorway. The bar was closed. A solid steel shutter securely barred the entrance. Someone had spray-painted a crooked, lewd picture on it. Juichi stopped opposite it. He felt like an idiot. What was he doing here? What did he want to see? To thank him? To repay the debt? It was ridiculous. He was about to turn away when he noticed an almost imperceptible door a little further down the alley, in a deep recess. It was painted the same grimy black as the wall and nearly disappeared into it. Next to it was a small sign without words, just the silhouette of a guitar. A back exit? Or the entrance to the storage room? His heart gave a inexplicable little jump. And as if on cue, the door creaked and opened. And He stepped out. Dressed in a simple gray turtleneck, with his guitar case on his back. The guy didn’t notice Juichi at first, turning to lock the door with a key. In the daylight, he looked even more fragile, almost transparent, with bluish shadows under his eyes that spoke of a sleepless night. He moved lightly, but with a certain weariness, as if every motion required an act of will. He turned around and flinched, seeing Juichi. His dark eyes widened, and what flashed in them wasn’t so much surprise as annoyance. He took a step back toward the door, instinctively pulling the strap of his guitar case closer. The silence stretched. Juichi understood he had to say something. Explain his presence here, at seven in the morning, at the back door of a dive bar. But the words stuck in his throat, a solid, choking lump. "I..." He coughed, and the sound came out rough, frightening. "The money. I wanted... to pay you back." He shoved his hand into his pocket, gathered all the bills without looking, and held them out to the musician. The other man looked at his hand, then at his face. His own fingers, long and thin, nervously fiddled with the strap of the case. "Don't," he said quietly. His voice was completely different—not melodic, but flat, mundane, slightly hoarse. "You don't owe me anything." "I do," Juichi grunted stubbornly, still offering the money. "I'm not... I'm not a beggar." It sounded both stupid and threatening at the same time. The musician looked away, his gaze drifting somewhere into the distance, hinting that he needed to go. "Fine," he said, not taking the money but just waving his hand as if shooing away a pesky fly. "Consider it payment for the show. Admission is usually free, but since you insist..." He tried to step around Juichi to leave the alcove and enter the alley. Instinctively, Juichi shifted, blocking the path. He was much larger, more massive, and his shadow completely engulfed the musician's thin frame. The other man froze, and tension appeared in his posture for the first time. His lips tightened. "What's your name?" Juichi suddenly asked. He needed to hold him here somehow, to continue this absurd, stuttering contact. The man was silent for a moment, clearly assessing the situation. Weighing the risk. "Kanao," he finally exhaled, as if doing him a favor. "Juichi." He gave his name automatically and immediately regretted it. That name was a brand now. It smelled of concrete and disinfectant. Kanao nodded, showing not the slightest interest. His gaze slid over Juichi's face, lingered on an old scar above his eyebrow, and became detached again. "I have to go," he said, politely but firmly. "Where?" The word escaped Juichi's lips before he could bite his tongue. It was too much. The ultimate in stupidity. He silently stepped aside to let him pass. Kanao slipped past him, almost without touching, and stepped onto the pavement. He walked quickly, without looking back, his figure dissolving into the morning crowd. Juichi stood in the alley, the wad of money in his hand, and watched him go. He never finished his coffee, spilling it on his sleeve. A burning frustration with himself tightened his stomach like a belt. Everything had gone wrong. Wrong again. He didn't spend the money, shoving it back into his pocket, the same pocket that held his lawyer's worn business card and a scrap of paper with the hostel's address. That crumpled ball became a strange talisman, proof that last night and this morning's encounter had been real. He walked out of the alley and wandered off, not knowing where to go. But now, in his head, over the obsessive whisper, was a new sound. A quiet, hoarse voice that had said just two words: "Don't." And a name. Kanao. It resonated within him, like a string someone had plucked in the silence. The next few days blurred into a single, seamless stretch of gray fabric. Juichi devised a semblance of a ritual to keep from going insane from the timeless void. Morning: coffee from the same stall. Afternoon: aimless wandering through the city until his legs ached with fatigue. Evening: he would return to that alley and stand across from the locked shutter, as if waiting for a signal that was bound to come. One evening, when a band was scheduled to play, there was a flurry of activity at the entrance. A small van pulled up, and equipment was unloaded: speakers, a mixing board. Juichi pressed himself against the wall, watching. Kanao and the drummer, a stocky guy in a biker jacket, were helping the mover carry everything inside. Kanao looked even more fragile next to the heavy cases, his face focused and tense. Suddenly, one of the cases he and the drummer were carrying tilted, and its corner landed with its full weight on Kanao's fingers. Juichi saw him jerk sharply and grab his wrist. Even from a distance, he could see him turn white. The drummer yelled something at the mover, and they immediately huddled into a frantic, concerned little group. Juichi started moving before he had time to think. His body reacted to another's pain with the habitual, drilled speed of prison. Within a second, he was beside them. "Let me see," his voice sounded commanding, brooking no argument. Everyone stepped back, surprised by his sudden appearance. Kanao looked up at him. This time, his eyes held no detachment, only pain and fear. He instinctively clutched the injured hand to his chest. "Who's this?" asked the drummer, eyeing Juichi warily. "Nobody," whispered Kanao. "A customer." Juichi ignored them. He took Kanao's wrist carefully but firmly. Kanao tried to pull away, but Juichi's strength was absolute. The fingers were red, the ring and pinky fingers already beginning to swell, blooming with a bluish tint. "Dislocation. Possibly a fracture," Juichi stated, looking not at the fingers but at Kanao's face. "You need a doctor. Now." "After the set," Kanao hissed through his teeth, trying to pull his hand back again. "Back off. I'll play." "You won't be playing any guitar," Juichi said categorically. "You'll only make it worse." "That's my business!" Kanao's voice broke with pain and panic. "We have a contract! They'll play without me!" It was at that moment the bartender, the burly one, peered out the door. He took in the situation with one glance: Kanao's swollen fingers, the equipment case, the tense stranger. "What's the problem?" he barked. "Nothing, Tetsuo," Kanao said quickly, hiding his hand behind his back. "It's fine. We'll get the gear in now." "His fingers got caught," Juichi cut him off, his low voice overriding everything. "Dislocation. He can't play. He needs to go to the hospital." The bartender grimaced, looking at Kanao with an expression of annoyance rather than sympathy. "Damn. Well, then." He turned to the drummer, Kenta. "Kenta, can you manage without him? Play an instrumental set?" The drummer, Kenta, shrugged, looking reluctantly at the pale Kanao. "Yeah, I can try. The Wednesday crowd isn't picky." Kanao's face twisted. He looked from the bartender to the drummer. He was being torn apart inside. The fear of losing the money and his regular gig battled with the wild, throbbing pain. "I... I can try," he exhaled, but his voice trembled. "No." Juichi's word sounded like a verdict. He took Kanao by the elbow again, this time decisively. "You're going to the hospital. Now." He wasn't asking anymore; he was leading. Kanao resisted desperately, trying to break free, but his efforts were futile. Juichi's iron grip didn't just restrain him—it was overwhelming, making any resistance meaningless. In his eyes swirled a furious, humiliated gratitude. "Get off me!" Kanao hissed, but almost soundlessly now, yielding to Juichi's will. Kenta and the bartender exchanged a look. The bartender waved a hand. "Fine, sort it out. Kenta, get the gear inside, we start in half an hour." The door slammed shut. From behind it came the first tentative drumbeats: steady, indifferent to the drama unfolding outside. The sound was loud, alive. They really were going to play without him. Kanao froze, hearing it. His shoulders slumped. He no longer resisted. They didn't wait for a taxi. Juichi hailed the first car he saw and practically shoved Kanao into the back seat. He sat with his forehead pressed against the cold window, watching his alley, his bar, his life recede without him. He didn't utter a single word the entire way. The emergency room was crowded and stuffy. They waited for over an hour. Juichi didn't leave Kanao's side for a second, standing next to him like a grim rock. The doctor, a woman in her fifties, diagnosed a dislocation of two phalanges and a severe contusion. She set them, bandaged his hand, and prescribed painkillers. When they emerged onto the street, it was completely dark. Kanao looked utterly defeated. Pale, with dark circles under his eyes, a huge white bandage on his hand. He was without his guitar; it had remained at the bar, where music was pouring forth without him tonight. He looked at Juichi with a gaze full of a raging storm: silent, furious, finding no outlet through words. "Happy?" His voice was hoarse with pent-up emotion. "Out of work for a month. Thanks for saving me." There wasn't a drop of gratitude in the words. Only the bitterness of resentment. "You would have ruined your hand," Juichi said calmly, without reproach. "What's it to you?" Kanao suddenly flared up with anger. "You showed up, took charge, decided everything for me! Who are you? You don't even know me! You were just bored, right? Decided to play the benefactor?" Juichi was silent, taking in his anger. He understood. Understood all too well. The humiliation of one's own helplessness. The rage of someone else making decisions for you, even with the best intentions. Kanao exhaled, wiping a treacherous wetness from his face with his sleeve. The anger drained away as quickly as it had arisen, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. "Where do you live?" Juichi asked, not reacting to the outburst. "Leave me alone." "Where do you live?" Juichi repeated with the same implacability. Kanao named a street. It wasn't far. They walked in silence. Juichi didn't support him, but walked beside him, matching his slow pace. His shadow, long and heavy, enveloped Kanao completely. The house turned out to be unremarkable. A narrow, three-story building with walls grayed by time, tightly wedged between other structures. It looked like a piece of an architectural puzzle. Neat patches of new cement were visible on the facade where cracks had formed after earthquakes. By the single entrance door stood tidy rows of containers for sorted trash, and a slightly worn sign with the district's name hung under the awning. Kanao stopped at the entrance, fumbling in his pocket for the key. "Well... that's it," he said, not looking at Juichi. "You did what you wanted. You can go." "You can't play," Juichi said. "Two weeks, at least." "I know," a bitter smirk touched the corners of his lips. "Thanks for reminding me. Is that all?" He turned to open the door. "How will you live?" Juichi suddenly asked. A stupid, tactless question. But it escaped on its own. Kanao froze with the key in the lock. His back, thin and straight, tensed. "Somehow," his voice became flat and detached again, but now this detachment was tinged with a bottomless fatigue. "I always manage somehow." He opened the door and disappeared into the dark entranceway without looking back. The door clicked shut with a quiet, yet final, sound. Juichi stood for a long time on the deserted street, looking at the dark windows. Somewhere on the third floor, a dim, yellowish light came on. He imagined the room. Small, empty. And Kanao, sitting there alone with his swollen, useless hand, listening in his head to the music being played without him right now. Juichi left. But he couldn't shake the thought—something like an obsession, a desire to care for this musician. After all, it was only near him that the noise in his head grew quiet.